Longlisted in the #shortys2024 competition

Content advisory: contains... content? Seriously, the closest I get to anything scandalous in this short story is some implied hanky-panky on the part of an artist's muse, and at one point, I use the word "fetish."

Ovid meets Sheridan Le Fanu in this story.

Length: approximately 1,500 words. 

First published on Wattpad on September 21, 2024.

I'm working again on a new one, a study of the female nude (okay, so I'm going through a nude phase - at least it isn't a still-life-with-soup-can phase, because soup cans were overdone from the first moment Andy Warhol decided to make them art). This nude is not from a real model, but from a Rodin sculpture. Or a series of them. There's a mermaid that I particularly like; also the woman in The Kiss, and, for sheer dramatic effect, the fallen caryatid. I like Rodin's work. It's incredibly expressive. I wonder what made him burn.

This one should be good. Her skin I'm coloring ivory - alabaster white - just because most of Rodin's sculptures were carved from white marble. The only color I allow the woman in my painting is in her hair. I paint it red. The hair on her head becomes piles and piles of flame, like an autumn bonfire, while the hair on her pubis gets painted the dark, brownish red of dried blood. Red is for passion, and Rodin would, I think, have liked me to do this tribute to his work in all these various shades of red.

She's turning out beautiful. Radiant. My angel of fire.

*

I think I will call the subject of my paintings Venus. It seems only appropriate.

I've painted a whole series of her now. Some of the studies have been done in the classical tradition, including a Venus Pudica based on Botticelli's, only her hair isn't covering her - it's billowing completely out to sea, to the glowing orange-rose sunrise. I can't seem to stop, which is great. When the inspiration hits you, you should milk it until every last drop is wrung from its source.

I have remembered to eat, although I don't feel like sleeping. I have a pot of cappuccino by my elbow, and a plate of prawn and lemon sandwiches. I'm sensible. I'm not one of those artists who never takes care of her body. I'm also not so poor that I'll literally starve in a garret. Things sometimes get a little tight, of course - now, for instance - but that's not the same thing as destitution.

It's really strange, but every time I look at my original Venus, a shudder runs through me, and I have to paint again. It's almost uncanny. Can a painting you've made yourself also be your muse?

I pour myself another cup of cappuccino and draw a sketch for my next effort, which (I have decided this with my usual humour) shall be of Pygmalion and Galatea. A triptych; in scene three, Galatea will be seen coming to life and giving her hand to her sculptor. She will, of course, have flame-colored hair, like the subject I am basing her on.

I am proud of my efforts. I do not think I will market these - I couldn't bear to have them sold. I tell myself (or try to tell myself, anyway) that this is because my nudes are too experimental. But I think the real reason is that I'm in love with them. It's fairly common for an artist to fall in love with her own work, I've heard. I remember reading that somewhere. Usually, we get over it. I suppose, in a few months, I'll get sick of all this clutter in my study, and then I'll try to pawn it off on Frevd or some other hip coffeehouse or arty wine bar. Whether they'll take it or not is another story. I hope they do, because I could use the money. My last client still hasn't paid me off completely for the paintings I gave her as office decorations. Maybe I should get a day job.

But then, how could I finish this series? I can't work when a job keeps interrupting my flow, I've tried that -

Best to not think about it. Best to just work on my Venus.

*

A miracle! Not only did my client finally pay me, but she gave me a bonus and may know of a friend who would be willing to buy and exhibit some of my work! That takes care of the bills for the next two or three months, anyway.

The Pygmalion-Galatea triptych is finished, and (I must be going mad) my Venus is looking at me with what seems to be an approving eye.

Even more mad, I am in love. This is not just infatuation. It is love. I know this. I can't resist my desires any longer. Kissing the oily feet of my Venus seems beautiful, voluptuous; holy. It is the only right thing to do.

I surrender.

*

I found out where yesterday's manic delirium came from. It seems I have flu. It's horrible. I have a fever of (since the last time I checked, which was an hour ago) nearly a hundred and five degrees. Something tells me I really should call the doctor, but I can't get out of bed. The sheets are soaked. I feel as though I'm rotting; my body is an empty shell. I can't imagine how much strength it would take for me to reach the phone, which is in the next room, of course.

My Venus stares down at me from where she is positioned in my loft - my daybed is right next to my work area. It makes the paints more accessible when I wake up in the morning. My Venus is concerned. Her lips move, slow and blurry. Mostly, I can't really make out what she is saying, but if I listen really closely, I do catch some of it. "Poor Alice!" she says (Alice being my name - goddesses always seem to know your name). "I fear I'll be the death of you!"

I try to reassure her, to remind her that dying for one's art is actually a sweet and traditional thing to do - it even ensures one's fame a few generations down the road - but she shakes her head sadly. She doesn't want me to die. She needs me alive.

She wants to know if I love her.

Of course, I love you, I respond. Don't we all worship the source of our inspiration?

She wants to come down, even though the results are often fatal. I let her.

Will you make me some chicken soup? I ask. And find my acetaminophen?

Well, it is a dream, after all.

"Of course," she says, reassuring me. She'll do anything to make my service more comfortable.

I smile weakly and sink into oblivion. My next painting - oh, it will have to be a tribute to Bosch or Dali. What a strange Venus will rise out of this fever, if I ever get up from it.

*

It's been a few days. I feel weak and drained, but at least my fever is gone. For some strange reason, I've got bruises all over me, especially on my thighs and neck - I must have fallen out of bed and walked into the door, or something. Maybe it's just a weird side effect of this horrid flu. I still have a lingering cough. But there's a package of ibuprofen and some cough medicine by the bed, along with some honey, and lemon juice, and a bottle of whiskey, which added to hot water are my usual cure-all. A hot toddy won't actually cure you of your ills, but it will distract you enough that you stop caring how rotten you feel.

I begin to paint my dream-illustration series, which I decided should be a collection of egg tempura miniatures painted on ten-centimeter blocks of wood.

I've been having the strangest dreams now, strange even for me. Most involve my Venus coming down and asking me to put a little more blood into my paintings. As if she were a woman who stepped out of the mind of Edvard Munch, she likes blood. And, she says, it gives the paintings such a delightfully rich color.

I've tried it. Crazy, but wouldn't you know, she's right. It mixes beautifully with the egg tempera. My miniatures glow, icons of an earlier pagan faith. The gold leaf gleams when the sun shines on them through the skylight. It's been doing that a lot, lately, at least in the mornings - and as beautiful as the effect is, it hurts my eyes. I worry that it will fade the paint, too, so I decide to keep my paintings covered except at night. I'm starting to work primarily at night now, anyway.

The coloring in my paintings is changing. It's getting richer and more sensuous.

*

I am exhausted. Totally, and utterly, exhausted. I cannot paint anymore, no matter how demanding my muse is. I need a rest. My cough is coming back, and I always seem to have a horrible chill.

I bruise easily, and constantly. The bruises appear all over my body, in strange locations, like my inner thighs, and never seem to heal. I don't remember how I got them. I'm afraid to call the doctor for fear of finding out something horrible about myself.

*

My Venus, my muse, whispers to me from the painting, promising to finally manifest herself - wouldn't I like a more three-dimensional model, when I recover?

Certainly, I tell her. If only she'll be patient and let me sleep for a few more days.

She smiles and grants my wish.

I am rocked (I'm too tired to come up with anything original) in the arms of oblivion.

*

It's sundown. I don't know how long I've slept. My muse is in the kitchen area, fixing me clam linguini - because, she says, I need my carbohydrates. An empty bottle of Aqua Vitae lies drained by my bedside table. I think I guzzled it in five seconds flat.

There's a bruise on my left breast. My muse put it there. Quite an impressive hickey, really. I still call her Venus because she hasn't given me any other name to call her yet.

She comes to my bed, props me up on pillows, and feeds me, telling me stories - mostly from Ovid. I think she may be reciting from memory, but I'm not the proper scholar to be a judge of that. She has a beautiful voice, and her touch is both soothing and wildly arousing. She is very kind.

I have a whole slew of ideas on how to paint her, already. I look forward to it.

I am so glad to have got her attention.

As for the bruises, the exhaustion - well, they mean nothing to me. So she has a fetish. It's a small price to pay for the favors of a muse.